Untouched: Drabble Collection
by Nuripuri
Summary: Collection of drabbles. Various pairings and ratings.
1. Decoy: 10051 R

His eyes are closed tight, and lips pressed into a tight line that won't let any sounds slip through. He knows he's pretending this isn't happening. And that amuses him. Because he won't let him ever forget this. Won't let him forget the way their hips are moving, the way their skins are slick with sweat and rubbing each other raw, the way he bites down on his neck to mark pale skin with a red welt he can't hide.

"Shou-chan~," he breaths in his ear as he fucks him, and Shouichi's legs shake as his fingers push behind his knees to hitch them up higher, "Shou-chan, aren't you having fun?"

His cock is hard against their stomachs, taunt and erect and flushed red at the tip. His already pale fingers are nearly stark white in comparison as he wraps them around his shaft and tugs gently.

He tries, puts forth an honest effort, not to enjoy it. But his body is tensing and his hips are twitching as he jerks him off and pounds his dick into his ass. His glasses slip down his nose and he keeps clenching his jaw tighter and tighter as his body gets closer and closer to the brink. Then he comes into his hand, a few drops spilling onto his stomach.

He laughs because he can, because it will make that hateful feeling settle into Shouichi's stomach. He finishes inside of him a moment later, and he pulls away, sated.

Shouichi tries to clean himself up with his discarded shirt, and he won't look up. That's what makes it fun, he has to admit. It's only as fun as it is because of the lies. His hand brushes across his collar bone, and Shouichi finally looks up. He kisses him, because he can. Because Shouichi is his. Because he knows Shouichi hates that he's fallen in love with him. Because he likes to see him lie.

It's why he's kept him around so long, after all.


	2. Taking Up Our Time: 8059 PG13

It had become a habit since they first moved to Italy almost a year ago after Tsuna's succession. This, whatever it was. Closeness.

His breath was hot on the back of his neck as Yamamoto pressed close. His chest rose and fell easily, in steady rhythm with his heart that Gokudera could feel against his spine. Skin against skin was almost stifling, but Italian summer was too warm for much clothing worn to bed.

He was lonely, he had claimed. Gokudera could understand why. People knew who he was in Namimori. He had been there his whole life, had memorized streets and faces. Italy was a place where people moved about in their own circles from place to place with little care for strangers. Gokudera knew that better than anyone.

"Just learn Italian," he had told him once, but Yamamoto only laughed and hugged him tighter.

Neither of them really belonged here. Half-bred son who spent more time blowing up relationships then bothering to make them and a Japanese man whose worth lay with whatever instrument he held in his hands. Maybe that was why he didn't mind Yamamoto's puppy-like need for affection, even if it only was sharing a bed when they were around each other and occasional kisses and fucks in the dark.

He didn't mind this habit.


	3. The Machine: Daemon SpadeChrome R

He liked to watch her suffer.

A simple flex of his powers, a slip of the illusions that held her together and she would crumple to the floor, gasping and shuddering as her body shattered from the inside out. The skin of her stomach would sink against her butterfly-bone ribs, thin little veins stark against her pale skin as the blood rushed from it. Her face would be white, but the blood that bubbled from her lips was a crimson stain, morbid rouge he felt matched her half-life existence perfectly.

She always cried. Desperate little tears seeping out from beneath her lids that were squeezed shut. She would fight, struggle, her mouth red and gasping while her chest trembled, all just to breathe. He'd watch as she sobbed, hiccups making the blood catch in her throat, choking her while her fingers sought purchase on the hardwood floor.

"Just say it, cute little Chrome," he would encourage, "Ask for my help. I _want_ to."

It took all her effort, he knew, for her to give him that one slight shake, to bite her lip and to bear it against her instincts screaming for relief.

"It's a simple word," he urged, "Just say 'please'."

She never said it. It was always a mantra of "Mukuro-sama," over and over, that same little prayer that was too similar yet so different from the pleas he had heard countless times from his years in the painfully Catholic Italy. A lost soul crying out for a god that simply wasn't listening.

He gave her a bit of her kidney, a section of liver and lung, making the wrinkles in her forehead lessen. Until he snatched them back and she writhed and screamed.

And she would know that she belonged to him.


	4. Wayward Son: G R

**Wayward Son**

He was fourteen years old when he stole his first cigarette. His mother always kept a case in her purse for her clients, and so one day while she slept off the night of alcohol and drugs and sex, he took one and went to smoke it on the roof of their shitty apartment building. It was laced with something that gave it a strange perfume and he choked the first drag. But the second time it put it to his lips he inhaled the bite of nicotine and ash and it filled up his lungs. He held it for as long as he could before blowing it out through his nostrils, the smoke curling upwards into the sky that was too bright and too blue for his foul mood.

He was also fourteen years old the first time he had sex. She was a girl he had seen in dark alleys with bruises dotting her arms and scrapes on her knees. She was older than him but not bigger, her limbs mere bones and skin with little muscle or fat to give them shape. They were eye level when he told her to follow him to his house, where he knew his mother wasn't. She had her own job to do. The girl didn't ask, merely held out her hand and he gave her a crumpled note. They fucked on his little bed, and she moaned and cried in all the right places. When they were done she didn't move for a while, and when he finally looked at her she was crying.

"What'd I do?" he asked and she only shook her head before pulling on her clothes and running out.

When he was fifteen he came home to his mother's head smashed open on the kitchen floor and his father sitting at the table with a bottle of wine between his lips. He cut his hand on the knife he kept in his pocket and his father took the opportunity to throw the pot of water his mother had been boiling for dinner at his head. The water splashed and scalded against his cheek and jaw, and his hand was slippery on the handle of his knife as he pulled it out and threw it at whatever blur he could see through the pain.

When he didn't feel like he would pass out, and his eyes had regained their focus, he looked to see his father on the floor beside his mother, gasping and hacking from the knife in his chest. He reached out to him, eyes wide with fear. He could see the whites stark against his red face. He spit at him before grabbing a bag and shoving whatever he could inside of it then running.

He was sixteen when he met Giotto, the ink of his tattoo still fresh and his palms calloused from wielding a bow. By then, he'd had countless cigarettes and fucked more women that he could begin to even bother remembering. He had killed just as many men.

"What should I call you?" Giotto asked in that soft voice of his, smile bright on his lips.

"G," was his grunted reply.


End file.
